


paracetamol smiles

by paintyourwords



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dealing with Effects of Said Childhood Trauma, Established Relationship, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Residues of Childhood Trauma, vague descriptions of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23772493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintyourwords/pseuds/paintyourwords
Summary: Draco liked that Harry asked, the way he cared and minded and loved Draco with small questions and assurances. So many things in his life had been done for and to him without him being asked, and though he wanted to tell Harry that he wanted anything and everything he could do to Draco, he thought that Harry might have felt the same and thought that the questions where how Harry told him he loved him without having to say the words.He couldn’t help notice that Harry asked for the small things too. He asked when he sat down next to Draco in the common room, he asked when Draco joined him at the Gryffindor table, when he could ignore the way he was watched, leaning across to reach for a remaining roll, making sure Draco had had his fill first. He asked when he needed the quill sitting idly by Draco’s arm, or if the blankets shifted when they shared a bed, quietly, almost ready for his voice to fade.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 128





	paracetamol smiles

When Harry had first kissed Draco, he had asked, quiet and soft and tender, a hand reaching towards his cheek. He didn’t need to, Draco thought, because he was sure that his face had said everything, from how much he craved it, to how terrified he was in that moment.

Harry had asked again, the second time, and the third, until Draco had found the nerve to kiss Harry himself, and until Harry’s soft lips on his and his hands in his hair had stopped feeling surreal, and he had discovered that Harry’s eyes sought his own as much as his did Harry’s, and the lurch in his stomach every time Harry smiled didn’t need to be shoved down into the pits of shame he kept hidden.

And sure Harry kept asking, the first time he had made Draco moan with teeth against his neck, and the first time his hands had wandered away from just Draco's chest, and the first time they had pressed against each other, backs arched, gasping, eyes bright, panting into each others’s skin.

Draco liked that Harry asked, the way he cared and minded and loved Draco with small questions and assurances. So many things in his life had been done for and to him without him being asked, and though he wanted to tell Harry that he wanted anything and everything he could do to Draco, he thought that Harry might have felt the same, and thought that the questions where how Harry told him he loved him without having to say the words.

He couldn’t help notice that Harry asked for the small things too. He asked when he sat down next to Draco in the common room, he asked when Draco joined him at the Gryffindor table, when he could ignore the way he was watched, leaning across to reach for a remaining roll, making sure Draco had had his fill first. He asked when he needed the quill sitting idly by Draco’s arm, or if the blankets shifted when they shared a bed, quietly, almost ready for his voice to fade.

Worse, however, was when Harry didn’t ask. When he paused, hesitation clear on his face, hovering, before changing his mind, eyes flicking away, deciding he didn’t need whatever he had wanted from Draco.

It started sparking arguments, when the novelty of simply Harry’s voice and his words in his ears had worn off. Irritation spiked with the redundancy of every question, itching away at Draco’s skin so that the reassuring smiles he gave Harry turned forced, grimaces that dissolved into snapping and flinching and harsh words and mutual rage.

“It feels like you don’t trust me, or that you’re scared of me, or, or that you don’t know me well enough to know that I don’t care if you use my things without asking or that I want you, and I want you enough, all the time, that I love it when you’re with me, no matter what we’re doing,” Draco had said one night after anger and frustration had reduced them both to near tears. They had looked at each other then, eyes wide with want for each to understand the other.

Harry had taken Draco’s face in his hands, and pressed their foreheads together, eyes slipping closed. He didn’t know how to tell Draco that asking and being denied was all he’d known for the first eleven years of his life, that he couldn’t help be uncertain that he was wanted when all he’d known was spiders for friends and glares at his presence, and that he feared every day that he would do something to drive Draco away, that it wouldn’t be enough, he’d say the wrong thing, the wrong words, take what wasn’t his. He didn’t know how to explain to Draco, who had grown up filled to the brim with adoration and unending bouts of affection, that asking for love was what he knew, because it hadn’t ever been something he could have had.

Draco had felt his heart breaking, his love for Harry overflowing then, flooding the space around them, wanting to wash away Harry’s years of abandon, years of those who didn’t deserve him. He pulled Harry onto his lap, pulled Harry’s hands away from his face, pressed his own hands to Harry’s cheeks and jaw and lips and kissed him, deep and full of love, until their tears had dried and the kisses became greedier and open mouthed, hands tugging at Harry’s hair, pulling, fingers pressed against his throat, feeling his pulse quicken, feeling his sharp intake of break, the moans as he pulled harder, pressed firmer, rocking against each other until their breaths came apart and they folded against each other, spent but open and vulnerable.

Harry still asked, but more and more often, Draco gave. Draco, who had been raised to expect to receive without questioning, to have the whole world for his own, worked so he could instead give his world to Harry.

He pulled Harry down next to him before he could ask to sit. He reveled in filling up Harry’s plate with the things he loved, loved the way Harry smiled at him after, knowing what he was doing and loving it still.

“I want you,” he whispered, over and over again, because he did, and he needed Harry to know, and feel it.

When Harry hesitated and Draco saw him start to dissolve into the night air, ready to not be seen, he pulled Harry close and held him and coaxed the words out of him, eager to hear them.

Of course Harry still asked, he couldn’t help himself, but the questions became less and less the need for permission, and more and more from want.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at 3am between bouts of falling asleep instead of doing the architecture coursework I was staying up for it's short and far too dramatic but I hope you enjoy follow me on tumblr [oh-a-calamity](https://oh-a-calamity.tumblr.com)


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